Rough
by allpenninghufflepuff
Summary: Whatever could Sherlock Holmes what with the Detective Inspector at such a compromising hour? S/L PWP one shot


Disclaimer: I am so far from owning anyone in this. Except Mrs. McIntyre, I guess. But I don't really want her…

Warnings: It's not super graphic, but this a PWP really. A slashy one. Some really mild language to boot.

Also I have committed the blasphemy of pairing something other than Holmes/Watson. Specifically, Holmes/Lestrade…

First fic of this nature. Critique welcome, but if you don't like the content, you shouldn't be reading this.

Rough

When Detective Inspector Lestrade's doorbell rang, he hoped he wouldn't have any more unwanted guests, that it would just be Mrs. McIntyre, the lovely little old lady from across the hall, needing help with her plumbing. His diminutive flat had already become the dog house Anderson was forced to stay in (which was like saying three clowns and a rather precocious parrot were staying with you) and Lestrade was doing his absolute best to not twist the CSI into a pretzel. While he doubted it actually would be his neighbor and had little clue (or care) of whom was calling, when the door opened to a particular consulting detective, the older man was outright taken aback. It had been a long time since Holmes had last turned up on his doorstep, looking at him as he was now, needy, unabashedly wanting.

"Oi, what's he doing here?" Anderson piped up from the couch. Lestrade found himself pushed out of the way by Sherlock, whose thin face took on a look of pure disgust.

"What am **I** doing here? What are **YOU** doing here?" Lestrade rolled his eyes, closing the door. Glorious. Couldn't get away from the either of them in his own home.

"I got kicked out by my wife," Anderson answered snootily. The DI didn't want to intervene unless he had to. Maybe if he ignored them, they would stop and play nice.

"Why?" Sherlock tilted head like an inquisitive dog. "Was it because she realized you were unfaithful or because she realized you are the absolute scum of the Earth?" That comment caused Anderson to leap off the couch and convinced Lestrade the time to intervene was now. He stepped between the two, arms extend to keep them outside of striking distance of each other.

"Alright, alright, now that **that's** out of our systems, can we all calm down and not start a rumble in MY house?" Lestrade sighed in exasperation. God why couldn't it have been annoying Mrs. McIntyre at his door making an excuse to leer at his buttocks? He turned to Sherlock. "Holmes, why are you here?" He knew exactly why Holmes had come, but he thought if he played dumb, maybe the detective would detect now was a bad time. As if.

"I –," Sherlock paused to lick his lips, his tongue looking very pink against his pale skin (the man was evil, Lestrade knew it) "– I haven't been sleeping well." Not that was any different from the normal, but it was probably easier to admit than the fact the recent events with the bomber, this consulting criminal he'd been called, had actually shaken him. Lestrade noticed his hand was still on Holmes's chest (or did he put it back?) and began crafting a vague, tactful, yet urgent reason for Anderson to leave. Sherlock stepped closer, and the detective inspector avoided looking him in the eye, hopelessly delaying the inevitable. The CSI finally caught on to what was happening, or more likely, snapped out of the shock or the realization of what was happening and scooted awkwardly past the couple, muttering something no one really cared about.

"You – why now? I mean… I've missed you. You know what, just ignore me." Soon, Lestrade was grabbing handfuls of hair, forcefully kissing the younger man, hesitation lost now they lacked and audience. Sherlock was equally fast in returning affections, making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. They both needed this, each other, a distraction from the work of being themselves, of bickering, of pretending to dislike each other and failing spectacularly. They fell into rhythm like they had never stopped seeing each other. Sherlock slid his deft hands under the older man's t-shirt, pulling it over his head then shrugged his own shirt off. Lestrade buried his face in the smooth pale neck, placing soft kisses up and down it until he found the spot that made Sherlock's breath catch. He would never again take the ability to silence the detective for granted. While he fumbled with Sherlock's belt, damning the contraption circling his lover's waist, Sherlock's hands reacquainted themselves with Lestrade's torso, the smooth, cold palms scanning his body as his eyes would scan a clue. Lestrade began watching the others arms, counting the old scars dotting the pale arms out of habit.

"Well?" The consultant asked, slightly out of breath. Lestrade's eyes darted around confused. The other man rolled his eyes and leaned in to whisper, "Shall we make our way to your bed at anytime this evening?" Lestrade shrugged wordlessly, purposely to annoy Sherlock, though as their embrace resumed, the lighter man tried to guide the pair to his objective, blind and multitasking. The ever-present grace so engrained in his movements was gone, leading the two into a clumsy collision with a wall. The older laughed softly (watching the other bristle with glee) and slowly, carefully, moved backwards to his room. Once there, he found himself naked and straddling the other man in what seemed to be an instant, shed clothes and a half-opened drawer only evidence time had passed at all. Sherlock moaned shamelessly, the bed creaked frighteningly, and Lestrade steeled his nerves. He was not letting the damned consultant to get to him too easily. However, Sherlock let out a small sound, too soft to clearly understand, but it sounded like a name.

And it certainly was **not** Lestrade's. Again the brunette sighed a louder, unmistakable "John." The DI felt blood rise to his face, his thoughts blurred by a cloud of anger and desire, head spinning over the conflicting emotions. The betrayal spurred something in his psyche, and the change was almost as evident as Jekyll to Hyde. Hands that had been gently running through hair or down arms turned to grabs that had a definite sting or iron grips that would be dark, splotchy bruises by morning. The gentle pecks along the neck became bites, with enough force to break the blood vessels under the skin. The bed was now rocking on its hinges, the mattress protesting so loudly nothing could be heard over it, save for Sherlock, writhing and screaming. Lestrade hissed into his lover's ear not sweet nothings but an order or maybe a threat.

"Say. My. Name." The answer was an incoherent groan deep in man's throat, but with enthusiasm and the proper number of syllables to leave the DI content. Sherlock began begging (not for anything specific) with a hoarse voice, no longer low and sultry but high and needy. That nearly drove Lestrade home, but managed to wait a bit longer to best Sherlock by about two seconds. He moaned, shuddered, and fell onto his stomach, sticky, exhausted, and mildly content. He was sure Mrs. McIntyre would be popping in before he left for the station in the morning, desperate to see what kind of saucy broad he'd spent the night with, and Sherlock would be long gone. Just like old times. The younger laughed softly, or in other words, as loudly as he could manage. Lestrade looked blearily at the man turning over to laugh some more.

"My plan worked marvelously," Sherlock stated, almost looking fully in control of his faculties already, though his shuddering really gave him away. The older bit back a groan, rolling his eyes. Sherlock really couldn't stop being Sherlock for too long or he'd lose his reputation as a world class twat. The consulting detective seemed to be waiting for a response, smiling like the cat that got the atrocious cliché.

"What plan." Lestrade hardly cared to be berated for a lack of intellect for not figuring it out.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began, less condescending than he was normally "I almost believe your even temper, gained from your experience," he meant himself, of course, "is a flaw and not a virtue." The even-tempered DI propped himself up on his elbows while the other continued. "You see, through our many… liaisons, I have observed something. Well, many things but those aren't pertinent now." The consultant paused for breath and effect, before leaning very close to his audience, ever dramatic. "Not that your finesse is lacking normally, but you are easily at your best when angered." Lestrade scoffed. The other man looked confused.

"Holmes, if you really like it rough," he paused to punctuate his sentence by tugging his lover's ear with his teeth, eliciting a small moan, before whispering "you only had to ask. Just 'cause I get that way when I'm angry doesn't make it exclusive to anger, and certainly doesn't mean you have to send me into a jealous rage." Sherlock flushed a little, cursing himself for missing the simple solution.

"I could never be with anyone else." The consultant curled near the DI, still trembling ever so slightly. Lestrade turned to more comfortably lay an arm over Sherlock before replying.

"No, I suppose not. No one can stand you long enough 'cept me or Watson, and John not crazy enough to get in a relationship with you." The older grinned broadly at his rather miffed lover before assuring him it was a well-meaning jest. Soon they were drifting to sleep, neither seeming to mind the fact they would not be waking up together.

##

Lestrade's cell began ringing at 4.45 and, being a police officer, he knew he couldn't blow it off. "'lo, whatzit?" he barely managed, looking to the dent Sherlock left. Sherlock was laying in it, turning to assess the situation.

"May I come up now?" Anderson asked from the other side of the line. The DI had forgotten about him. He stammered for a bit, before the long, pale arms he hadn't expected to still be there snaked around his waist. He tried to hang up but when Anderson's voice continued piping up, he'd known he'd failed. Like he cared. He was currently preoccupied.

"This is bollocks." Anderson left before hanging up. Sherlock looked up and sighed.

"Finally."

"Sherlock," Lestrade addressed the man beneath him, "Will you stay with me? I'm in the mood to make a scene." The consulting detective laughed and nodded, pulling the policeman down.


End file.
